


A Timeless Christmas

by J_Q



Series: TIMELESS [11]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Cranberry Sauce, Eggnog, M/M, Mistletoe, domestic life, fathers and sons, fire breathing dragons, hashtags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 09:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17139593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: The ghosts of fathers past threaten to ruin the sex of Christmas present. Also Yev trusts his Dads.





	A Timeless Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doddz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doddz/gifts).



“Can we get this?” Yev asked, getting his knee up on the conveyor belt and knocking over several boxes of Stove Top stuffing in his attempt to reach a pack of Strawberry Hubba Bubba gum. “I never tried this kind before.”

Ian smiled tightly at the woman in line ahead of them as she straightened her purchases. “Yev…”

He watched Yev’s fingers move to the next pack of gum. “Can we get this one then?”

“Get down, please.”

This had been going on for approximately 1000 hours as they waited in the long pre-Christmas line at Wal-Mart. Yev never pitched a fit, but he was persistent. Ian never actually used the word “no”, but he was consistent.

And Mickey…always seemed to disappear. Ian was going to get him one of those child harnesses and tether him to his side. He pulled out his phone to send a menacing text as they slowly moved toward the till.

“’scuse me,” Yev said loudly as he moved past Ian to get closer to the haggard cashier. He angled his head to be seen around the register. “’scuse me.”

The middle-aged woman tilted her head to see Yev better, and the stuffed antlers on her head listed to the left. Ian could see Yev get distracted by them, frowning as he waited for them to fall off completely. But the woman righted them in time and Yev relaxed.

“Where’s your Boneknapper?”

Ian and the woman locked eyes.

“My what?” she asked.

“Boneknapper,” Yev repeated. “You got none. What if Santa runs out?”

Yev looked expectantly at the woman, confident in her ability to right this situation, while the woman in front of them in line released an annoyed sigh.

“I left Santa a message on Instagram cause he’s on social media. That’s what Daddy said.”

Again the cashier, and now several people in line, looked at Ian. “Um, his other Dad.” He looked at Yev for confirmation that he didn’t have a third Dad hiding somewhere who knew about social media.

Yev nodded. “Yeah, I wanted to mail Santa a letter about Boneknapper, but you gotta get a thing called a stamp or Santa won’t get your letter.” He was looking at Ian now with his big blue eyes and a finger of dread was tapping Ian on the shoulder. “Daddy said Santa preferred hashtags now. Whatever that is,” he mumbled to himself.

Ian was putting two and two together. Mickey didn’t want to be bothered finding a post office. “Okay, so you sent your wish list to Santa through social media?”

“Yeah, but I only put one thing on my list, Daddy.” He returned his attention to the cashier. “Do you got any Boneknappers in case Santa runs out?”

“Um.”

Ian was surprised she was able to formulate even that much of a response.

“I checked all the toy area and you got Snotlout and Hookfang but no Boneknapper.”

Now Ian could hear laughter breaking out behind him and knew he needed to get this show moving along. Yev took this shit seriously and wasn’t going to understand why everyone within hearing range was finding this hilarious.

“Are they action figures, Yev?”

“Course, Daddy. You watched all the _How to Train Your Dragons_ with me.” He added the next part accusingly, “Don’t you remember?”

“Sure, yeah, Snotlout, of course.”

Yev slid the purse sitting on the little ledge in front of him out of the way, so he could push his face closer to the cashier. “Maybe you should call the owner and ask.” The air around Yev was changing and Ian could sense this was heading in a direction they didn’t want to go, so he crouched down, pulling his son away from the cashier.

“Buddy, Santa has been doing his job for a long, long time. A lot longer than Wal-Mart has been around. It’ll be okay.”

Yev looked into his eyes, first the right then the left, then he nodded firmly as he put all his trust in Ian. “Okay, can we get some Juicy Fruit?”

Eventually they were through the line, still with no sign of Mickey.

“Where the f are u?” Ian texted, guiding a distracted Yev toward the exit. “We got a 911.”

“At the car.”

“R U smoking?”

“Never.”

“Pfft.”

“911?”

“Did u get Boneknapper?”

“I like the sounds a that.”

“That’s a no then?”

“WTF is a Boneknapper?”

“Check with Svet, see if she did. On way.”

 

 

 

Turns out the whole Boneknapper discussion occurred between Yev and Santa only, leaving none of Yev’s parents in possession of the elusive toy. So the next day, Ian and Mickey dropped Yev at Svet’s house on their way to the mall with Ian in a panic that finding one specific action figure on Christmas Eve wasn’t going to be possible, especially when finding a parking spot was becoming an insurmountable hurdle.

“Jesus, fuck,” Ian snapped, scanning the parking lot like their lives depended on it. “Is anyone _not_ shopping today?”

“Relax, Gallagher.”

“You didn’t see his face, Mick. He _trusts_ me!”

“Course he trusts you. You’re a fucking Boy Scout.”

“More than that. He believed me that Santa was going to come through.” Ian sat up in his seat. “I think that’s a parking spot. To the left Mick, come on.”

“Jesus, man. I know how to park a fucking car.”

“Are you sure cause you’re going so slow that we’re getting lapped by an old lady.”

“Watch your mouth.”

Ian made some sort of growling noise and flopped back against the seat.

After losing the spot to an old lady, they managed to find parking at the back of the lot. Ian continued to growl all the way to the mall doors, and Mickey threatened to go home without him.

People. Everywhere.

“No way, Ian. No fucking way.”

Ian was inclined to agree, but he didn’t spend the last three years wiggling his way into Yev’s life to let him down now. He was good at wiggling his way in.

Turning slightly, he opened his eyes a little wider and tilted his head. Before he could get any further, a shopper jostled him from behind and he was forced closer to Mickey. Smiling, he slipped his fingers into Mickey’s hand and felt his husband’s grip tighten.

“Please.”

“Fine.”

They scanned the aisles of Toys R’ Us with no luck. Ian even tried to ask the pubescent stock boy if he had any Boneknappers in the back, and Mickey nearly pissed his pants laughing. They did not.

The independent toy store was picked clean. Even the small toy selection at the drug store was a bust, so they returned to the original Wal-Mart in case the store had received an emergency delivery of Boneknappers. They had not.

Ian’s agitation was out of control as he stared at the empty space on the toy shelf and the little yellow tag indicating that Boneknapper had once sat here between the boxes filled with every other dragon of Berk. The only gap in the shelf belonged to the only toy his son wanted for Christmas.

"The shelf is empty, man," Mickey announced unnecessarily. "What are we waiting for? Christmas?" Even silly jokes were bouncing off Ian today, but Mickey’s patience was as picked clean as the shelf in front of him, so he made the purchases he needed to and the left the store.

Tossing the shopping bag in the back seat, Ian tapped into his phone. “There’s another Wal-Mart…” Ian said once they were sitting in the car, “4.1 miles from here.”

“Nope.”

“Nope what?”

“We’re done.”

“But I—”

“It’s past supper time, Ian. We haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m starving.”

“Come on, one more stop.”

“Done. Yev’ll survive. It’s just a fucking action figure.”

No amount of lip pursing or huffing stopped the car from arriving home, where Ian got out without a word slamming the car door behind him.

“Relax, for fuck sake,” Mickey taunted slamming his door equally as hard. “You’re acting mani—”

When Ian stopped abruptly on the sidewalk, Mickey wished life had one of those 10 second rewind options like Netflix because Ian was already in a shit mood and reminding him that he occasionally can't tell when something really is a big deal or not wasn't going to help the situation.

"Yeah," Ian responded without turning around. "Turns out Santa doesn't check his Instagram."

"Fuck off. You blaming me for all this?"

"Hashtag if the shoe fits." Ian continued up the walk slamming the door to their house behind him. By the time Mickey made his way to the kitchen, the microwave was humming and Ian was banging cupboard doors between mumbled curses. Cracking open a beer, Mickey watched in amazement as Ian overreacted epically.

“You need to take a chill pill before you break the goddamn cupboard doors, man.”

“We don’t have any cranberry sauce,” Ian said pulling assorted cans from the shelf and thumping them onto the counter top.

“Thank god, that shit’s disgusting.”

“It’s a Gallagher tradition to have cranberry sauce,” he explained finally turning to Mickey a little wild eyed. “Just because Milkoviches are Grinches doesn’t mean the rest of the world is.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows, more so at Ian’s condescending tone than at the comment, which he couldn’t really disagree with. “So what? You wanna go driving around the city trying to find the last fucking tin of red shit?”

“So what if I do?”

“Bitch, you’re on your own then.”

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Ian snapped slamming the cupboard door behind him with his foot just as the microwave dinged. Ian split the sizzling pasta onto two plates and walked out of the kitchen with his food not sparing Mickey another look.

Blowing on the spaghetti noodles, Mickey frowned at the idea of spending Christmas Eve steering clear of the powder keg he’d married instead of cuddling on the couch with a horror movie. He was considering reminding Ian of that tradition when the guy returned to the kitchen with his empty plate.

“I’m going to The Alibi,” Ian announced on his way out of the kitchen.

“Oh,” Mickey said smiling hugely and stuffing the remaining noodles in his mouth. “I’ll join you.”

Ian ignored him when he arrived at the door, just grabbed his coat off the hook, zipping up to his chin as he braced for the cold night air. The walk turned into a three-block silent treatment. Ian because he felt wronged and unsupported, and because he was dreading the look on Yev’s face the next day. He was a shit father for making promises he couldn’t keep.

Mickey because he didn’t want to reopen the can of worms that would require him to continue this hopeless quest for a stupid fucking plastic dragon. Yev had so many goddamn plastic assholes around the house that Mickey felt like they should start charging them rent.

But it was Christmas Eve, so he decided to reach out to Ian and see if they could put this shit to bed. Holiday sex was on the line, damn it. And that was a Milkovich tradition. Beat the hell out of cranberry sauce.

“Hey, Rudolph?” he began, eyeing the tip of Ian’s nose which was turning red from the cold. When that didn’t produce a response, he bumped his shoulder roughly into Ian’s causing his redhead to stumble slightly to the right.

“The fuck?” Ian snapped.

Mickey waved his gloved hand toward the garland drooping over The Alibi sign. “It’s Christmas and shit, man.”

Ian stopped at the door, frowning first at the wreath made of crushed beer cans then glaring at Mickey. “I know exactly what day it is and—” he paused to yank on the door handle, “I know what day it is tomorrow.”

Christmas music and loud chatter overrode any response that Mickey might make, but at this point he was royally pissed, and it was probably good that Ian couldn’t hear any possible responses. If his husband wanted to be a whiny bitch, then he could do it somewhere Mickey wasn’t.

Like alone at the bar.

The place was packed, which didn’t say much for the Christmas spirit in their neighborhood. Two bar stools stood empty. On opposite ends of the bar. Ian took the one closest, his back now to Mickey, so Mickey took the other one, refusing to look at Ian.

Well, refusing to look directly at Ian. He kept the guy in his peripheral vision because he was pulling out cash and tossing it at Kev, who reached under the counter for a shot glass. Mickey narrowed his eyes as Kev filled the stubby glass with amber liquid.

Whiskey?

Once the glass was in front of Ian, Mickey waved Kev over for his own shot. Watching Ian purse his lips and look everywhere but at Mickey, he couldn’t get that whiskey in his system fast enough. The bartender’s eyes traveled between his two latest patrons.

“Jolly old Saint Nick over there,” Mickey said nudging his chin in Ian's direction, “better not get carried away with those shots.”

Kev lifted his hands in surrender like he didn’t want to get involved in their spat.

“Another,” Ian demanded tapping his shot glass on the bar. Mickey flicked a look at him, but he was watching Kev fill his glass. Before the guy could get away, Ian grabbed his forearm then lifted his finger to signal Kev to wait while he downed the whiskey. “One more.”

Mickey had long since finished his shot, so he waved at Kev for another. “Ay, Kev, cut him off after this drink,” Mickey grumbled once Kev returned to his end of the bar.

Kev tossed the towel over his shoulder and yelled down the bar at Ian. “Hey, Ian, Mickey says to cut you off after you finish that whiskey.”

Ian lifted the shot glass to his lips, tossed the liquid back then stretched across the top of the bar until he could reach a bottle of tequila off the shelf. He filled his shot glass, lifted it in a salute toward his husband, “Tell Mickey he can take this shot out of my cold, dead hands.” Then he tossed it back with exaggerated enthusiasm, wiping his mouth with a knuckle.

Kev turned to Mickey, “He said—”

“Yeah, I heard him. Tell him this,” he replied sending a finger in Ian’s direction.

“Asshole,” they said in unison.

 

 

 

Mickey was huddled in his coat puffing on a smoke and mindlessly listening to a couple of his cousins bitch about their girlfriends. He was trying to decide if Ian classified as his girlfriend based on their descriptions when her highness stumbled out the front door, eyes darting around until they landed on Mickey. The whiskey-tequila cocktail was having the desired effect on Ian based on his awkward walk and glassy eyes as well as the fact he was only in his thin t-shirt.

“Where’s your fucking coat?” Mickey snapped at him when his teeth immediately started chattering.

“Gimme a smoke.” He slipped his hand into Mickey’s jacket pocket but came out empty, so he tried the other pocket as his cousins headed back inside.

“Not quite,” Mickey taunted tipping his hips forward drawing attention to his crotch. Ian ran his fingers along the front of his jeans but came up empty again. “Oops, my mistake,” Mickey added but pulled the pack from the front pocket of his button-down shirt.

“D-d-dick.”

Ian slipped a cigarette between his lips and Mickey lit it for him, then shrugged out of his coat draping it over Ian’s shoulders.

Exhaling, Ian stared at Mickey. “I’m still mad at you.” But he moved a little closer to share body heat.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

 

 

 

 _Kiss Kiss Kiss_ , the room chanted. Mickey curled his lip in disgust for the umpteenth time over the last two hours. Fucking mistletoe bullshit. Just an excuse for assholes to shove unwanted PDA in his face.

“Corner pocket,” Ian announced to the room in general, oblivious to both the spit being swapped ten feet from them as well as the dangerous arc his pool cue was making as he swung it around in glee.

Glancing at the assorted balls remaining on the pool table, Mickey snorted, “Ha!”

Ian looked over his shoulder into disbelieving blue eyes. “Got som’thin’ to say, Mick?”

“Ha?”

Ian leaned a hip against the side of the pool table, resting the end of his cue on the floor so he could start twisting the little square of chalk round the tip of the stick. Slowly at first because he had to concentrate when it kept slipping off, but he eventually gave it a good polishing. Mickey tried to look away not wanting to give Ian an inch, but the guy was really working over the stick.

Then he tossed the chalk square at Mickey’s chest. “Watch closely, Milkovich.” He bent over the pool table adjusting his hips a little as he lined up with the cue ball. When his body stretched across the green felt, his t-shirt rode up revealing silky skin and the top of his Jockey’s.

Mickey glanced around to see if anyone else noticed Ian’s little display, but people were more interested in the constant mistletoe shenanigans than in Ian’s attempt to make the corner pocket.

“Woo hoo!” Ian did a little two step thing, shaking his hips then tossed the pool cue at Mickey. “Suck it, Mick.”

Shaking his head in regret, Mickey ran his thumb over the tip of the pool cue to get Ian’s full attention. “I’m gonna clear the table, Ian.”

“What?” Ian stopped shaking his ass and looked at the remaining six balls. “Fuck.” Grabbing his glass, he guzzled a bunch of liquid, while Mickey grimaced.

“What the hell are you drinking?”

“Rum and eggnog.”

“How are we even married?” While Ian continued to sip his drink and Mickey continued to stare in distaste, cheering erupted from the general vicinity of the mistletoe. “Jesus,” Mickey shouted. “No one wants to see that.”

Ian finally looked in the direction of the kissing couple. “Mistletoe,” he sorted of sighed. Mickey could only see his profile, but he knew what Ian looked like when he felt deprived.

“Damn it,” he muttered, pocketing the two remaining solids, while his redhead looked off into the distance forlornly.

Thankfully, his phone buzzed in his pocket distracting him from yet another Christmas tradition determined to ruin his life.

Svet.

His relief was short-lived. What the hell did she want? Sliding his finger over the screen, a picture appeared at the end of his text conversation with his ex-wife. Her resting bitch face looked almost happy as she held up the skeleton of a dragon. Goddamn Boneknapper.

Of course, she’d found one. He figured she knew more shady people than he did.

Did it fall off the back of a truck? he texted in response, amusing himself with the thought of black market action figures.

I am honest woman now, she replied.

If you say so, he texted back then turned back toward his husband.

“Yo, Princess,” he called out. “Looks like you don’t have to give up your Father of the Year award.”

He jangled the phone out in front of himself, letting Ian snatch it from his hand. Three seconds later, Mickey felt like the biggest asshole on the South Side, an honor that takes a lot of dedication to obtain. Ian’s face underwent such a transformation that he’d have to be blind to not see how important this was to him.

“God,” Ian whispered still staring at the phone screen.

“I’m fucking sorry, Ian.” Taking the phone from his hands, he dropped it back in is jean pocket. “Why’s this such a big deal? You got a special place in your heart for Boneknapper or somethin’?”

“I—” He was interrupted by another round of cheering.

“Jesus fuck.” Mickey stalked around the pool table. When he reached the kissing couple, he crouched low so he had enough momentum in his jump to reach the green and red decoration hanging from the ceiling. “Community service,” he announced waving the offensive greenery at the room as a chorus of booing filled The Alibi. He smiled happily.

Returning to Ian, he shoved his empty hand into his redhead’s chest and maneuvered him toward the short hallway leading to the stock room. Once Ian’s back was wedged against the back door, Mickey held the mistletoe over their heads and cocked an eyebrow.

It was one of their sweet kisses, the kind that make Mickey wince when he wasn’t engaged in them. The kind where Ian sort of holds him and Mickey sort of lets him. The kind that make clear to him the depth of their affection for each other.

“Okay, Romeo, talk.”

Ian just shrugged and Mickey just waited.

“I don’t know, Mick. I feel like I have to work extra hard cause I’m only his—”

Mickey narrowed his eyes, “His what?”

Ian shrugged again, refusing to make eye contact, so Mickey used his free hand to tilt Ian’s head toward his. “His step dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, Ian. Yev, me and even Svet know how fucking lucky we are to have you. On the daily.”

“But what if I disappoint him?” Ian asked. Whatever his redhead was looking for, Mickey figured it was bigger than just making their son happy.

“I don’t think it’s a case of _if_ , man. That’s a given, ain’t it?” Mickey asked. “Parents disappoint their kids.”

“In my experience, yes,” he smiled when he said this.

“Is that what this is about? Some kind of shit from your own childhood tryna fuck with our lives?”

“Probably.”

“Lemme guess. You wanted a Boneknapper and didn’t get one.”

Ian shrugged but looked thoughtful at the question. “Kind a. I got my hopes up at Christmas _a lot_.”

Mickey tried to remember getting his hopes up, but he must of given up on that shit early cause he had no memories of it. “Until you were how old?” He dreaded hearing that answer.

“Twelve? Thirteen?”

“Shit.”

“Sorry.” Ian waved a hand like he was apologizing for everything connected to the South Side.

“Sorry? For getting upset over having a fuckhead for a father?” Mickey pulled back enough to really look at Ian. “Cause that’s bullshit. I ain’t spending my life apologizing for my father, I can tell you that. That’s all I’d spend my fucking time doing.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start with Frank.”

“Start with me. That asshole still owes me 500 bucks.”

“You’ll never see that.”

“I’ll keep you as collateral.” They both relaxed now that they’d worked shit out. “Okay, we done with the ghosts of fathers past?”

Ian nodded. “You really think I’m a good dad?”

“Ian, this is the dumbest conversation we’ve ever had, and we’ve had plenty of dumb conversations,” he began and Ian’s smile took on a life of its own. “But since you seem so goddamn focused on ignoring the last three years of our lives, then please let me confirm for you officially that you are a good dad. Who does Yev go to when he’s sick? Who does Yev talk to about every dumb cartoon? Who does Yev—” Mickey stopped. “Wait, fuck. Am I a shitty dad?”

Ian yanked the mistletoe out of his hand and held it above their heads.

This time the kiss wasn’t so sweet. This time Mickey was seeing some holiday sex in his very near future.

 

 

 

When Mickey bumped his shoulder into Ian’s about a block from The Alibi, Ian took the cue and followed him into the back alley for another quick make out session. It was their third since they’d finished their big heart to heart.

“I hate clothes,” Ian groaned into Mickey’s mouth. “I can’t feel any of you.”

Grabbing Ian’s hand, Mickey shoved it between his legs. “How’s that?”

“Mm,” he replied. “Your nose is so freaking cold.”

“You know what they say about a cold nose…” He flicked his eyebrows at Ian suggestively.

Laughing Ian shook his head. “Are you sure you got your body parts right?”

“You tell me,” he said rubbing himself against Ian’s hand.

“I love you.”

“Nope, no mushy shit right now. Holiday sex, Ian. H-O-L—” He was cut off my Ian’s mouth.

It wasn’t the sweet kind of kiss.

Eventually Mickey’s nose was warm, so they left the alley way, but before they could turn down their street, the Kash n Grab came into view. Despite the fact it was nearly midnight on Christmas Eve, the neon OPEN sign was flashing. Mickey grabbed Ian’s hand, pulling him across the street between the sporadic traffic.

“You outta smokes, Mick?”

“Nah.”

A warm rush of air hit their faces at the same moment the door signaled their entrance. The kid behind the counter looked up then returned his attention to his phone.

“Ay, you got any cranberry sauce?”

The kid scrunched up his face but pointed toward the middle aisle. “Ew, who eats that?”

“The Gallaghers.” Ian waited at the door watching Mickey disappear as he bent down to toward the cans on the lower shelf. His disbelieving voice rose before his head appeared. “4.99?”

Ian was grinning, disproportionately happy over a can of pureed cranberries.

“I guess it’s a Christmas miracle, Gallagher,” Mickey announced tossing the can toward Ian and a five-dollar bill toward the cashier. “But don’t expect me to try any of that.”

The kid offered Mickey his penny change, but Mickey just looked peeved.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Ian teased, holding the door open for Mickey. Once outside, Ian held the can against his chest, pressing it into his parka. “You loooove me,” he sing-songed skipping ahead of Mickey then turning to face him. “You got it bad for me.”

“Not if you keep that up, I don’t.”

“You’re gonna try cranberry sauce one day, Mick,” Ian continued walking backwards and smiling at his Christmas miracle, who snorted and shot him a middle finger. “I got you whipped.”

He managed to get turned around, but the curb was closer than he anticipated, and he stumbled slightly giving Mickey a chance to grab the back of his jacket.

“Whipped, my ass.”

Twisting free, Ian laughed over his shoulder, “Oh, I definitely got that ass whipped.” He practically leaped over the front end of an Oldsmobile to get away, but he could hear Mickey’s breathing behind and suddenly getting away wasn’t super appealing.

Stopping abruptly, Ian braced for the impact. He felt an arm come around his neck and fingers dig into his ribs through the padding of his jacket, but he still managed to maneuver until his could smack his lips loudly against Mickey’s.

The arm around his neck tightened bringing him back for a second kiss. “We’re out in the open, Mick.”

Their frozen breaths were mingling between them, but Mickey didn’t pull away. “Yeah, well, apparently I got it fucking bad for you.”

“I know the feeling,” Ian said pressing their cold noses together.

“I ain’t eating any cranberry sauce though.”

“We’ll see.”

 

 

 

Mickey watched Ian’s bare ass disappear into the bathroom before reaching over the side of the bed for the phone in the pocket of his jeans. Resting back against the headboard, he strategized the best way to get what he wanted from a woman who might still be able to shake him a little. Looking down at the picture of Boneknapper, he avoided looking at Svet’s face.

I’m calling in my favor, he texted to her. Not expecting an answer this late, he paused to figure out the best way to word his request.

Must be big deal, was her immediate reply.

Direct was probably the best way to proceed. She was going to read right through him anyway so he might as well get it over with quickly.

Want santa to deliver the thing here, he typed.

Mickey watched the three dots bounce as the toilet flushed. Come on, woman, he tried to get her to respond faster through sheer force of will, but the balls kept bouncing as the bathroom light went out. Was she sending a fucking essay? He heard Ian’s footsteps on the stairs heading away from him and he relaxed.

Just as he started to type a frustrated prompt, the balls disappeared.

K, she replied.

Bitch, he wanted to send back, but part of him appreciated that she was a worthy adversary. Plus he didn’t want to push his luck.

The phone pinged again.

I agree without favor, appeared on the screen.

He sent one final text as pounding feet hit the stairs.

Thanks.

The bouncing dots did one rotation and disappeared, so he tossed his phone on the night stand and linked his fingers behind his head. Glancing down at himself, he shifted so the bed sheet revealed more pubic area but still covered the goods.

Ian appeared in the doorway, pausing with his hands behind his back. Mickey gave him a good once over, so Ian rested his shoulder against the door jam, giving Mickey time to marvel at how damn lucky he was.

“Have you been naughty or nice this year, Mickey?” He started doing something sexy with his hips distracting Mickey momentarily.

“I’m a fucking married man, whadaya think?”

“Whipped?” Ian asked hopefully.

“Happily, now get over here.”

Those long legs took their time moving toward the bed, until they were eventually tucked around Mickey’s waist and that bare ass was sitting on top of him. Mickey brought his hands from behind his head to slide up Ian’s thighs. “What the fuck’s behind your back?”

Ian just looked down at him with his goofy grin, so Mickey surged up attempting to get his hand on whatever Ian was hiding from him. But the shiny square package in his hand shot past Mickey’s face as Ian pushed up to his knees so his hand was out of Mickey’s reach.

“What d’we have here?” Mickey asked, nose close enough to bury itself in Ian’s fiery pubes. He closed his eyes, just breathing in this man for a moment. “Whipped doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Ian’s crotch was replaced by his belly then his chest until he was sitting once again on Mickey’s thighs. He tilted his forehead down to meet Mickey’s then just sat there all serious and shit.

“Are we having another moment, Ian?” he asked. “Should institute a 24 hour rule: one heart to heart per day max.”

“It’s after midnight, so a new day,” Ian countered. “No, I’m good. You know I love you like crazy, so here.” He pushed the foil wrapped box into Mickey’s chest. “Merry Christmas…husband.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at the swoony way that word came out of Ian’s mouth. “24 hour rule, Ian.” But he grinned and leaned back against the headboard shaking the box a little to see if it made a noise, while his other hand pulled Ian further up his body until he was sitting more snuggly. Then Mickey ripped off the paper. “A Fitbit?”

“Yeah, it’s—”

“I know what the fuck it is, but you apparently don’t.”

“I take the care and maintenance of Mickey Milkovich very seriously,” he explained while sliding the sleek black band onto Mickey’s wrist like a wedding ring. “Keeps track of all kinds of things.”

“Better not tell me I drink too many beers.”

“We don’t need a Fitbit for that,” he teased releasing Mickey’s wrist now that the little light was flashing. “This is a special model based on a points system.”

“Yeah?”

“You can cash in your points for rewards.” Ian slipped a knee between Mickey’s thighs.

“For beer?”

“Better.” His second knee joined the first, forcing Mickey to part his legs wider and the sheet to slip off his body.

“Than beer?”

“Mhm, me.”

“Hashtag intrigued,” he joked leering at Ian. “So what’s a point get me?”

Ian licked his nipple.

“Five points?”

Ian pressed their lips together, and Mickey trapped Ian's face against his with a hand to the back of his head. “Ten points?”

Ian’s tongue pushed into his mouth then disappeared as his lips sucked a little on Mickey’s lower lip before continuing along his jaw and attaching to the side of his neck. “Shit. Twenty five points?”

Ian’s hand slipped between his legs stroking and pressing while his mouth continued sucking at the skin of his throat. “Ask what you get for a hundred points.”

 

 

 

“Yes!” Yev tossed aside the shiny red wrapping paper. “Boneknapper!” As he flipped the packaging around looking for a way to get into the toy, Mickey smiled and got up from the couch taking the matching #1 father mugs with him. Yev couldn’t have picked better gifts this year.

“Help me get it open.” He heard Yev say to Ian as he opened the fridge door planning to fill his mug with beer and Ian’s with that fucking eggnog he insists is Christmas-y.

“Boy, they really pack kids toys well,” Ian replied a moment later. “Grab a knife, Mick.”

He passed Ian his Swiss Army knife and settled into the corner of the couch with his mug. Their holiday visiting was out of the way and they had the rest of the evening to relax.

“Wow, that’s pretty cool, Yevvy,” Ian said nodding approvingly at the white skeleton shaped dragon their son was weaving around between them. “But he probably needs someone to play with.”

“Oh,” Yev breathed out. “He doesn’t get along with other dragons so much.”

“My kind of dragon,” Mickey chimed in.

“His armor is made of crushed dragon bones!” Yev announced clearly torn been glee and horror.

“What’s under all that armor?” Ian asked sitting up to look closer at the clubbed tail.

“He’s like a boneless chicken underneath,” Yev was clearly gleeful now. “Once he has all his bone armor, he’s the strongest dragon in Berk!”

Ian looked over at Mickey, smiling for so long that Mickey scowled at him.

“But he still needs someone to play with, Daddy. He needs a friend.”

“Well,” Ian began leaning over the arm of the couch, “good thing I got this!”

“Snotlout!” Yev yelled eyes wide in amazement, probably already planning their first adventure.

“Hey Yev,” Mickey said reaching under the pillow and producing a third dragon.

“Hookfang!” He followed that up with a thundering roar and leapt onto the sofa declaring that his cushion was a dragon boneyard. Ian swooped in letting out an imaginary stream of fire and adding the screeches of his fleeing opponents.

Mickey decided he didn’t have it bad; he had it good, really fucking good.

**Author's Note:**

> Hashtag happy holidays!


End file.
